Dumbledore, The Younger
by takethetardis97
Summary: No one bothered much with Aberforth. Unfortunately, when your brother is the shining star that is Albus Dumbledore, you will most certainly be overlooked. Just a collection of important events in the life of the younger Dumbledore brother. Rated for dark topics and language.
1. Ariana's Assault

It was 1891 and a young blonde girl was rocking on her heels by the front door. She was short and thin, but not unhealthily so, and she wore a beautiful little dress that matched the blue of her eyes. Her gaze shifted from the window, through which yellow sunlight poured into the house, to her two elder brothers, who were occupied with their own activities at the moment. She sighed dramatically to get their attention.

At the corner of the small room, a tall boy with auburn hair peered up from his book. Albus was only ten, but he had the wisdom of someone much older and more experienced. When the clever boy realized that his sister, Ariana, wanted him to come outside, he simply declined, shaking his head with his nose pointed up in the air. His gaze shifted back to the words on the pages, while hers leapt to the younger boy in the room.

Aberforth Dumbledore had nicked his father's chess set and was currently clashing the pieces together on the floor of their front room. Much to the pale boy's dismay, the little stone figures wouldn't actually battle; in fact, they seemed only to want to be returned to their board. Aberforth peered through dark brown bangs up to his sister, whose innocent eyes usually melted him like butter. Today was different, though, as he was tired and only wanted to play with his toys. With a regretful expression that suited his thin face, he shook his head at the eager young child.

"I'll go out alone then," the six-year-old piped, pouting at her brothers. Albus never played with her, but Ariana thought for sure that Aberforth would come. Nevertheless, the child skipped out of the house, and her brothers didn't pay her any mind. Though Ariana was young, she could handle herself and didn't need to be babysat.

Aberforth, who was only seven then, always admired that about his little sister. The two youngest Dumbledore children shared a bond that didn't go unnoticed by the rest of the family. They were the closest in age, for one thing, and they both loved playing games and hated books and being quiet. Albus was quite the opposite, a studious child, and this created a lot of friction between the two boys especially. Young Aberforth could already see that his brother was favored by his parents, so he appreciated the extra affection he received from Ariana.

The boys had sat unbothered in the front room for about an hour after their sister's departure. Aberforth was in the middle a heroic duel between the white and black chess pieces when their mother wandered into the room. Kendra was a delicate woman who seemed constantly drained, a quality all too common in mothers. She peered around the room to find only her two eldest children present.

"Albus, Aberforth, have you seen your sister? I thought she was in here with you," Kendra queried, expecting the little girl to leap from under the curtains or behind the bookshelf. Instead, Albus glanced up from his book, clearly annoyed at being interrupted, and answered his mother in a matter-of-fact tone that found permanence in the young man's dialogue.

"She insisted upon playing outside, Mum," he replied, rolling his crystal blue eyes pretentiously. Kendra bit her lip nervously, knowing that it wasn't necessarily safe for a six-year-old to wander about alone. She didn't worry too much, though. Ariana had played outside alone before.

Aberforth placed the chess set back where he took it from after a scolding from his mother. Left with nothing else to think about, he began to panic for his younger sister. The dark-haired boy ambled towards the back windows, studying the hedges in the yard. The boy was reassured by the rustling of the bushes; sure that Ariana was just playing one of her little games. With a fond smile on his adorable face, Aberforth skipped back into the front room. With any luck, he could pester Albus into playing with him.

It was when he reached the room that he heard her scream. Aberforth felt that all the breath had left his body in the moment. Albus had even put aside his book as the haunting shriek echoed throughout the Dumbledore house. The elder stood from his chair, while the younger dashed immediately to the back window. All he could see was the rustling of the hedges.

"MUM!" the young boy bellowed in desperation, and Ariana's screaming persisted. Kendra was already throwing Aberforth out of her way, instructing both of her boys to stay inside. Her youngest son disregarded this, nearly running out ahead of her before Albus held him back. Even their father had come down the stairs, seeing only the thrashing young boy in his elder brother's grasp.

Percival instructed his sons to go to the front room, despite their protesting and the tears that threatened to leave their eyes. Their father had no idea what was happening then, but there was no mistaking the child's scream. It wasn't the scream of a scraped knee. That scream was laced with all of the pain in the world.

"Perc!" Kendra wailed, bursting through the back door. She was carrying a now silent Arianna in her arms and she was crying. The bearded man rushed to his wife's side, lowering their tiny daughter onto the table. Aberforth and Albus, ignoring the explicit instructions of their father, reentered the room to see what was wrong.

Aberforth saw the remnants of his younger sister lying in the fetal position on the wooden table. Her pretty blue dress was now stained by blossoms of crimson blood. The color had left her face apart from the developing bruises and her mouth was agape in permanent horror. Her crystal blue eyes had glimmers of suffering and the worst things you can imagine. It had been seemingly endless minutes, but she was still trembling.

Her parents and brothers repeated her name, starting in whispers but soon shouting pleadingly. Ariana never responded. She rocked back and forth, quaking in horror and forgetting to blink. It was as if she were alone. She couldn't hear the pleas of her family, and she was left unaccompanied with her worst nightmares. Aberforth could see how alone his sister was, and he wanted nothing more than to be with her. For the first time ever, he wasn't there for Ariana. He could never be there for her again.

The wounds on Ariana's body soon healed, but the wounds in her mind never would.


	2. Short-tempered

At the end of the corridor stood a short, scrawny boy with pale skin, glowing blue eyes, and unkempt dark hair. His skinny torso was clad in a dress shirt and a red and gold tie was wrapped lazily around his neck. Twelve-year-old Aberforth Dumbledore glanced down the hallway, sighing when he saw a gaggle of annoying Slytherin boys sniggering at a group of first years.

The Gryffindor boy tried to keep his distance, creeping by the group on the opposite side of the hallway. Inevitably, though, a long arm was thrown in front of him, stopping him from walking any further. Aberforth snarled, turning to face the group of infuriating Slytherins.

Their leader was second-year Arcturus Black, a long-limbed boy with straight black hair and murderous brown eyes. His cronies included a pair of Lestranges, who were a year apart but looked identical, a pink-faced boy called Prescott Blake, and an ugly bloke called Marvolo Gaunt who was really closer in years to Albus but too daft to hang out with kids his own age. The five of them often stuck together, strutting about the castle as if they owned it. It didn't help that Arcturus's father, Phineas Nigellus Black, was the current headmaster of Hogwarts.

Aberforth allowed his scowl to shift into a smirk as he faced the pack of vicious children. He gently lowered Arcturus's arm from his chest, placing his hands on his hips and chuckling.

"What's wrong, Black?" he sneered cheekily, "Did Daddy kick you out of the headmaster's office?" Arcturus, who towered over Aberforth, advanced on the boy. Aberforth flinched slightly, but held his ground as the Slytherin spat in his face.

"Watch yourself, half-blood," he retorted in a scratchy voice, "Talking to your superiors in that tone can get a fucking muggle-lover like you into a lot of trouble. Maybe even sent to Askaban…" Aberforth held his gaze against the boy, who was backed by his large Slytherin followers. "Speaking of Askaban," Arcturus sneered, "How's your dad doing?"

Aberforth shoved the Slytherin boy harder than he needed to. He knew that he had to walk away; the wayward kid was prone to fighting and wanted to avoid a scene. He heard the laughter rise behind him as he rushed off to the staircase. He climbed a few flights, entering Gryffindor common room through the portrait hole.

The common room was relatively empty at that time of day. Any normal child would take advantage of the sunshine and go outdoors. Aberforth knew that the tall, handsome young man in the armchair was anything but normal, though. Striding alongside the seat, the second-year Gryffindor stared accusingly down at his brother. Albus was reading, as usual.

"How does that scumbag Black know about Father?" the younger boy spat, the fire growing in his eyes. Albus didn't react in the slightest, simply licking his finger to turn the page.

"I assume you are talking about Arcturus, as I find his elder brother Phineas to be rather kindhearted," Albus digressed, ignoring the point of his brother's inquiry. Aberforth was having trouble containing his fury, especially with the addition of his unhelpful brother to the equation. Angry, he smacked the book right out of Albus's long-fingered hands. At this reaction, the auburn-haired boy gaped.

"Who told him about father, Albus?" the younger shouted, tears clouding his vision as he thought of the man he tried to shove from his memory. Albus didn't understand that his brother was in pain. In fact, he was rather irate after Aberforth whacked his book from his hands.

"I don't know what to tell you, brother," the fifteen-year-old snapped, gathering his hardcover from the floor, "It was all over the papers when it happened. It doesn't take Merlin to figure it out." With that, the taller boy stood, heading towards the staircase. Before walking to the dormitories, though, Albus made certain to send his signature look of concern and condescension in the way of his younger brother. Aberforth scowled as the other boy shook his head and trudged up the stairs with the book cradled in his arms.

Aberforth carried on with his evening, trying not to let Arcturus's comment echo in his head as it had earlier that day. In the Great Hall, the boy chatted with his friends at the Gryffindor table while enjoying the delicious meal in front of him. Dinner went smoothly, and he thought that he was over the whole situation. Aberforth was calm again; he was in control.

It was not over between them, though. Slytherins were like predators, sniffing out for any weakness, and they had found it with Aberforth. As if it were their job to ruin any good time, the pack of five sauntered over to the Gryffindor table to confront their prey.

"Well if it isn't Abby Dumbledore, son of a convict," Acturus remarked loud enough for even some Hufflepuffs to hear. His boys sniggered behind him, and one of the Lestranges walked alongside him.

"Careful, mate," the revolting kid warned in a gruff voice, "He might send his daddy to beat us up, just like he did to those muggle boys!"

Aberforth couldn't control it any longer. He whipped out his wand, casting every curse he could recall at the five boys. Albus rose from his end of the table, gaping in horror as his younger brother went mad. Aberforth shouted hex after hex, narrowly missing Gaunt with a blasting curse that could have blown him to smithereens. For what the younger Dumbledore lacked in book-smarts, he made up for in plenty with his knowledge of dueling. Pointing his wand directly at Arcturus, he shouted "Petrificus Totalus!" causing the Slytherin to smack to the ground like a board.

Aberforth leapt on top of his frozen adversary, sending his fist into Black's already crooked teeth. With a few more punches, he could see the blood beginning to seep through his sweater, but the blows didn't stop. Aberforth kept them coming, crying "Fuck you! Fuck you!" repeatedly over his opponents still body. The other four were too shaken to do anything but watch.

Everything was in slow motion as Aberforth punched. He glanced at his elder brother, who watched him with disappointed eyes. Albus didn't say anything, but the angry second-year could hear that condescending prick as the voice of reason in his head. _Stop this, Ab. This is a no-win scenario. _Aberforth's punching slowed as Black's face began to swell. Teachers were rushing his way, prepared to toss him off the cold body of the school's golden boy. With tears slipping from his gently closed eyes, he raised his wand and whispered, "Finite."

It was a wonder that Aberforth wasn't expelled after that day. Fortunately for the boy, their bigot of a headmaster was actually a fan of his father's work. Phineas Nigellus Black, the young man soon realized, thought any man who would assault Muggle children deserved to be elevated to sainthood. Aberforth walked away with a few detentions and fifty points taken from Gryffindor.


	3. The Funeral

The room was large and filled with benches, but only a few actually sat that day. In the front row, two young men were seated silently, close in location but not in heart. An old man at the front of the room spoke over the body of a fragile young girl with elegant blonde hair and a soft, gentle face. The young men in the front row listened to each word intently, one with tears in his angry eyes and the other with an inquisitive look that would be more congruous in a classroom than at a funeral.

Aberforth was fifteen: a boy on the cusp of manhood, yet he still clung to his impulsive and reckless ways. Today of days; however, the boy's normally animated face was solemn. The only part of him that betrayed his somber façade was the blue eyes that were glazed in tears and shimmering with hatred. For some reason, every ounce of sadness he should have felt was replaced by a burning hatred for a man who sat inches from him.

Albus, meanwhile, seemed to give no thought to his brother and stared intently ahead. From what Aberforth could tell, the eighteen-year-old didn't give a damn about Ariana's death. In fact, he was finally free! Now he could skip off with Elphias Doge and travel the world, unencumbered from his burden of a sister!

Aberforth strained himself to remain calm, but he felt that familiar rage boiling in his blood. The man at the front rambled on, but the younger Dumbledore lost track of his words. It was taking every ounce of strength the kid had not to kill his brother.

Soon, the sermon ceased and the few attendees rose to view the body. Bathilda Bagshot, an aging woman from Godric's Hollow, followed the boys up to the head of the room. Her nephew, Gellert Grindlewald, was nowhere in sight, much to Aberforth's approval. Gellert had no place in that funeral, as he was likely the reason it was taking place, in Aberforth's opinion. After Bathilda, a few more from the small neighborhood followed, allowing the two eldest Dumbledore children to lead the cluster to their sister's icy corpse. Albus and Aberforth walked slowly up, both stopping directly in front of the body.

At the sight of the delicate little girl, Aberforth fell to his knees, overcome with tears. He cried out in regret, for the young lady had the years she could have lived taken unceremoniously from her. He was teeming with emotion, disconcerted at what could only be described as an unnatural sight: a lifeless child. Aberforth was no less than completely devastated. Once again, he wasn't there for Ariana. Once again, he left her alone.

Albus remained standing, Aberforth saw between tears and dark messy strands of hair. He simply looked…disappointed. As if swooping in like some sort of hero, as always, the elder brother placed his long-fingered hand on his younger brother's shoulder in false-comfort. Aberforth couldn't take it anymore.

In front of everyone, a fair number of whom were fragile old ladies, Aberforth punched Albus in the nose. When his fist hit the face of his elder brother, he could hear cracking. He was finished with this deplorable excuse for a human being.

Before turning away, though, something caught Aberforth's eye. A tear formed in the blue eyes of his brother, trickling down his thin face. An onlooker might think that the punch made Albus cry, but Aberforth was cleverer than that. These weren't tears of pain. These were tears of regret.

"I'm sorry," Albus whispered, and Aberforth was unsure if the message was meant for him or Ariana. The taller boy went silent, but tears streamed as rapidly from his eyes as the blood streamed from his nose. The still fuming Abeforth inhaled, turning on his heel and striding away from his elder brother without looking back.

It was years before they spoke again.


	4. Last Day at Hogwarts

For a long moment, Abeforth Dumbledore peered around the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was always his favorite room; it brought happiness and comfort to even the most miserable of students. The room was warm and bright, and it surrounded one with his best of friends. Today was the eighteen-year-old boy's last day to enjoy its comforting walls.

Aberforth was unsure what the world held for him outside of Hogwarts. The boy knew he wasn't the luckiest or the most qualified for work, unlike Albus. His arrogant brother, a man whom he avoided as much as the space allowed, stood proudly at the staff table. He had gotten his position as Transfiguration professor when he was only nineteen, and he watched over the students from his spot as a king watches over his subjects. Aberforth knew this to be something he wouldn't miss about the otherwise glorious school.

Aberforth enjoyed the food on the Gryffindor table as a man on death row would cherish his last meal. The room was especially warm and comforting today, and the magically fabricated sky above was sunny and bright. The young man knew that the train would arrive the following morning, taking the seventh years back home for the last time. For now, though, the boy relished in time with his old friends: people who he may never see again.

Clinking rang through the grand room as Headmaster Black rose his glass. A thin, bearded man who was starting to go grey, Phineas Nigellus's voice prompted groans from every table (excluding Slytherins, of course). Aberforth, one of the more obvious groaners, soon silenced to hear the man's end-of-year speech. This year, it actually meant something to the boy.

"Students of Hogwarts: as you are all aware, today is the final day of the 1901 and 1902 school year. As with every year, we shall start with the winner of the house cup." This part barely interested Aberforth, as Slytherin had been the reigning champions since Professor Black became headmaster. Nevertheless, after an indiscreet eye-roll, he listened as Black continued.

"In fourth, with a total of 294 points," he began with an evident 'tsk' ending his sentence, "is Gryffindor. What a pity…" he commented sadistically as a feeble applause rose from the table furthest to the left. "In third, with 382 points, is the Ravenclaw house," he said uninterestedly as the table next to Slytherin's broke into lackluster applause. "In second place," he continued, "With 459 points, is the Hufflepuff house. And lastly, the winners of the house cup, with a total of 512 points… Slytherin!" A cacophony of deranged cheers rose from the table by the doors, as the Slytherins celebrated their victory.

"Surprise, surprise," Aberforth mumbled sarcastically to his buddies, causing them to chuckle. Luckily for the lot of them, this was the last time they had to deal with bragging Slytherins.

Aberforth ate like a lion that day. Plates of chicken legs and loaves of bread appeared in front of him, and with grabby little fingers, he gluttonously shoved mountains of food onto his enormous platter. He shoved down a copious amount of dinner, and had twice the amount for dessert. The seventh years all ate like this, figuring that they should enjoy being fed one last time.

That night, Aberforth trudged slowly up the staircase to his dormitory. He entered the common room; walking up to his shared bedroom, and peering around at the five wooden beds for the last time. His mates weren't up there yet, so he was all alone in the room that he'd lived in for seven years. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep the tear from slipping down his pale cheek as he stood in the middle of the area. He was just glad that there was no one there to see him cry.

Soon, though long after Aberforth had regained control over his emotions, the four other Gryffindor boys were in the dorm. The skylight that had blazed through the thin window was growing dark, and Aberforth lit a lantern to illuminate the room with a fiery glow. As the light of even the lantern began to dwindle, the boys found themselves succumbing to a blissful sleepiness. Within minutes after the lantern went out, the boys did so as well.

It was around eight when they woke the following morning, and Aberforth rose and got dressed. Everything seemed to go by so quickly that morning, and he soon found himself aboard the Hogwarts express, gazing out the crystal-clear window. He watched the fleeting scenery pass, ignoring his talkative friends as the train rolled on through mountains and valleys. Sooner than the young man would have preferred, the red train advanced towards Platform nine and three quarters in Kings Cross. Students bustled out of the doors, running to greet mums and dads, brothers and sisters. Aberforth walked slowly out and simply stood at the platform, completely alone.

He had no idea where to go from here.

**Authors Note: Hello! Thanks for reading: I love writing Harry Potter stories because of all the interesting characters the books have besides the main three. Just wanted to make clear that I love Albus Dumbledore, so any negative things said about him in this fic are from Aberforth's perception. Feel free to leave a review!**

**I do not own Harry Potter. It would be awesome if I did though, as all the characters have a special place in my heart.**


	5. Night in Knockturn Alley

In Knockturn Alley, nothing really ever changed. For some reason, the streets were always dark and disgusting: the preferred ambiance of most of the filth that trudged up and down those grey-bricked roads. The faces one would see on that street, assuming one would visit Knockturn Alley more than once, were always familiar though never friendly. On nearly any occasion, if there were an outsider of any kind, dark witches and wizards would be all over that person like flies to a piece of smelly meat. The newcomer who skulked down today, though, brought no attention. With dark bangs shading his gaunt face and a billowing black cloak that blew behind him as he prowled, the young man of twenty-five blended in perfectly.

Without catching the attention of the dangerous men and women surrounding him, the young man let his black boots walk him into the nearest tavern. The place was grimy and dank, and most of its patrons had hid their foul faces with some sort of cloak or mask. The man who'd just entered found a seat at the bar, which was headed by a fat slob of an old man with an eye patch and a mouth with few teeth. With a curt, disgusted grin, the young man summoned an Odgen's Old Firewhiskey from the surly bloke.

Even Aberforth himself didn't know why he there on that particular night. He'd always fancied a good drink, especially in the last few years when there seemed nothing better to do. Still, as dark and mysterious as the man had become, he wasn't in the habit of strolling through that part of town. The old bartender had poured the shot of whiskey, and Aberforth downed it with a single slug. The blazing sensation of the magical liquid spread through the young man's veins, burning his insides in that delightful way that made him feel more alive than ever. He swiftly clinked his emptied glass and called for another. Quickly, his wish was granted.

It was evident that the younger Dumbledore was not new to drinking, as he had lost count of how many shots he had put away. Any reasonable person would think twice before getting plastered in a place like that, but the lonely young man, even sober, was not in a reasonable state of mind. The past seven years had been hard on him; he found it difficult to hold down a job and he had nowhere to run when he was desperate and afraid. Aberforth used to be a handsome lad, but he had grown into an emaciated man with a permanent five-o'clock shadow and a scruffy head of hair. No, the man did not frequent Knockturn Alley or its taverns, but he knew there was a reason he was here. As Aberforth drank that biting liquid, it became clear to him.

This was where he belonged.

The glass between his shaking fingers was now empty, and he placed it gently on the table. Reaching into his pocket, he placed five galleons on the bar. That should have more than covered it, and he supposed even an unpleasant bartender like the one in front of him deserved a tip. He turned to walk away, stumbling a few feet before a gruff, angry voice boomed behind him.

"An' where'd you fink you're going, mate?" he growled, causing Aberforth to stop in his tracks, "The price 'ere is eight galleons for those whiskeys. Fink I wouldn' notice, did you?" The man was standing now, legs barely able to hold that enormous belly of his. Aberforth turned, a look of pure shock on his skinny face.

"Eight galleons!?" he sputtered, "You have got to be joking! I only had five shots. Not even the best taverns in England charge eight bloody galleons for that!" Aberforth was angry, and he was truly broke. His bad habit was hard enough to feed without the bars charging an unseemly amount for drinks. The man behind the counter folded his arms.

"I suggest you pay in full, if ya ever want to see the light of day again," he growled, and several other men stood from their chairs and eyed Aberforth like fresh meat. The young man was pleading at this point, surrounded by men twice his size.

"Look, mate. I don't have the money," he whimpered drunkenly, "But I'll pay you back, I swear!" The men were closing in on him, and the light was slowly disappearing from his vision. One grabbed at his shirt, and he thought he was going to scream. As if an angel had come down to save him right then, he heard the high-pitched voice of his savior force the men to back off.

"Oi! Come off it, you lot," she said, walking in front of Aberforth with her arm out protectively, "I'll pay for the drinks! Anyway, you know you're only chargin' this much because he's new around here." Aberforth swallowed, glancing down at his savior and staring back at the bartender. The ugly man nodded reluctantly, and the black-haired beauty in front of him retrieved eight galleons from her small coin purse. She put the gold coins in the bartender's fat hands, turning to Aberforth and speaking softly. "You should probably scram. Here, I'll walk you out."

The drunken young man complied, letting the beautiful girl snake her slender arm around his. When they walked out the door, Aberforth didn't run from the place as he should have. He simply stared into the sparkling green eyes of his escort. She was pale and delicate, with curly black hair that fell effortlessly and beautifully around her heart-shaped face. She wore a black corset that accentuated her waist, coupled with a flowing black skirt. Her face was youthful, and her cheeks were soft and pink.

"You're bold, still standin' here. What's your name?" She asked slyly, peering back at him. Aberforth turned his head and stared into the distance casually as he spoke.

"Aberforth," he said shortly, trying not to stare stupidly at the beautiful woman. With full pink lips, she smiled at his answer.

"Aberforth," she pronounced, and the way the word sounded in her soothing voice made the man very proud to have it as a name, "How wonderfully unusual! Although, slightly familiar…" the man supposed this was due to his brother's reputation. He was possibly well-known by association. "My name's Belvina, if you were wondering."

"And you call my name unusual," Aberforth laughed, and her lips curled into a grin, revealing a set of pretty white teeth. She stepped very close to him, and he didn't move away. Where they were was closer than Aberforth had been with someone in a very long time.

"All of my family has unusual names," she explained, "And, if you're rusty on your Latin, Belvina translates to 'fair one.'" She was moving even closer still, and Aberforth couldn't help but stare.

"How appropriate," he replied, blue eyes falling upon her glorious body. She smiled, cheeks turning even pinker, and simply stared up at Aberforth. Even in spite of the man's drunken state, he couldn't have remembered anything clearer than talking to her. Soon enough, though, his memories became flashes.

Before he knew it, he was in a bed. She was on top of him, kissing his face gently. The room was composed of dark shades to match her attire, and some of the things she had on the desk by her bed struck him as very dark indeed. He knew, however, that this was a one-time affair, so he chose to ignore the blatant warning signs that told him to run and never return.

Soon, the two were done. Even drunk, Aberforth thought it may have been the best he ever had. With her lying in the crook of his arm, he studied her room for an easy exit. He caught sight of a slip of parchment, instead, and his jaw dropped. The first line of the note, written in elegant black letters, was enough to do it.

_To Ms. Belvina Black._

Attempting to set his jaw back in place, he actually stifled a laugh. After all those years, tortured by a son of Black, this was the ultimate retaliation.

He'd fucked Arcturus's sister.


	6. Letter from a Brother

The year was 1956, and Aberforth spent the night wiping down the bar of his tavern. The time was coming up on midnight: the midnight that would begin his seventieth birthday. Yes, Aberforth was nearly seventy, but he looked about twenty years younger, as most wizards did at his age. His unkempt beard still contained more black hairs than grey, and he still had the glow of a younger man. When the bar was clean, or as clean as it would get from the dingy rag he was using, Aberforth poured himself a drink and sat back on one of the chairs in his shadowy pub. He watched the second hand on the clock tick predictably, and the minute hand crept slowly to meet the hour. As the final second of the day ticked, resounding in Aberforth's mind, the man closed his eyes and inhaled.

His heart leaped when he heard the smashing of something against the bar's window, followed by a sharp squawk. Aberforth rose from his chair, traipsing tentatively to the front entrance of the Hog's Head. As he stepped out, he saw the hanging sign, which was painted with the head of a frightening boar, waving back and forth as if it had been struck. At eye level, a feather drifted elegantly towards the ground, and directed Aberforth's attention to the battered owl attempting to stand at his feet. The brown, ruffled bird stared stupidly up at the man, clasping an envelope in its beak. Aberforth took the letter, feeding the bird a bit of bread before sending it on its way.

The man fingered the lip of the envelope for several moments, knowing exactly from whom it came. The thin, elegant handwriting on the back was unmistakable, as was the crest inscribed in red wax. As always, Albus's timing was impeccable, for the second hand had ventured a mere few ticks past midnight at this point. Aberforth bit his lip as he tore open the note.

_My dearest brother,_

_It has been quite a while, Aberforth. To begin, I would like to wish you a happy seventieth. It is truly unbelievable how quickly we've become old men, as I know we are both still very young at heart. As you may know, I have been recently appointed as headmaster of Hogwarts School. The appointment was one I'd have never anticipated, but it is an honor nonetheless. I would like to congratulate you on your business, brother, and would like to you to understand that any visit if letters from you are unequivocally welcome. There is no use continuing in this childish feud of ours! I hope to hear more from you, Aberforth. Happy birthday._

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

Aberforth didn't even give the letter a second glance before crumpling it and tossing it into the fire. He stared guiltily at the flame, which quickly consumed the parchment it had been fed. Even at the veteran age of seventy, the man could not let go of his grudge. To him, fifty-five years did not diminish his brother's role in Ariana's murder. Still, he understood that avoiding Albus did nothing but deepen the gap between them, something he didn't think was even possible.

The letter had made their feud both easier and harder to uphold. On one hand, it had convinced Aberforth that his elder brother was, amazingly, as pretentious as ever: shamelessly boasting about his position as Headmaster in someone else's birthday card. On the other hand, it showed how Albus wanted nothing more but for his brother to forgive him, which made Aberforth feel incredibly lousy for ignoring his attempts to restore their friendship. Aberforth was stubborn, though, and he convinced himself that the grudge was justified. He downed the remainder of his ale and watched the final remnants of his brother's letter burn into a pile of ash. Fifty-five years had not been long enough.


	7. Dumbledore's Army

There he was. He was the reason why his pub had gotten more business that afternoon than it had in the last month. He was the man who caused an uproar in every crowd through which he walked. He was the only thing that Aberforth knew was always riddled into his brother's thoughts. Standing as bold as brass at the front of the Hog's Head, was Harry Potter.

He never thought much of the boy. Aberforth was never into celebrities, and he assumed the boy's arrogance as surely as he assumed it in the rest of them. As he eavesdropped, though, the old wizard behind the counter was pleasantly surprised by Harry Potter's humility. It was so refreshing to hear a voice with both brilliance and modesty, for this was not a combination Aberforth was used to. He poured a glass for an elderly hag as he listened to the boy's misfortune told in his calm, sad voice.

From what Aberforth gleaned from Potter's speech, the Hogwarts students were up to something that they ought not to be up to. This made the man smile when no one was looking, remembering fondly his trouble-making days back in Hogwarts. This was different, though, as he soon could tell. These students were not causing trouble for the sake of it as he used to do. They were protesting.

As much of a hermit as he was, Aberforth was not blind to what was going on with the Ministry. He'd been around for many years, and he knew corruption and denial of facts when he saw it. He wouldn't go spouting off about it, but he knew that the boy didn't lie when he claimed that the Dark Lord had returned. It was reassuring to see the group of students willing to hear the kid out. He could understand Potter's frustration with the Ministry; after a childhood spent fighting with Albus, he knew what it was like to have one's side of the story completely ignored.

The boy had called it 'Dumbledore's Army.' Aberforth stifled a laugh; that boy truly admired the headmaster. To give Albus credit for an organization that Potter himself started, that was admiration. _Or blindness, _he thought to himself, doubtful that the boy knew the first thing about his brother. If Harry knew how pompous and manipulative Albus was, he wouldn't be naming his protest group after him, that's for sure. It was nice that he had motivation, though, and Aberforth could only hope that his proud brother would appreciate the gesture.

The students soon cleared the pub, and Aberforth inwardly wished them luck; Potter seemed like one of the good ones. If he ever had the chance, Aberforth would see to it that the boy succeeded in his battles. Finally, amongst the evil, the arrogance, and the lies, there was someone he could root for.


End file.
